


A Lost Sister

by Kriseis



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Gen, House Stark, Stark reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-11
Updated: 2012-10-11
Packaged: 2017-11-16 02:08:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,653
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/534291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kriseis/pseuds/Kriseis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rickon Stark, King in the North, meets a young woman in Braavos who shares his father’s eyes. "She’d heard of his survival, but she’d told herself that she didn’t care, that he’d been another girl’s brother, that that girl was dead. But now, standing before him, she is very much Arya Stark."</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Lost Sister

**Author's Note:**

> First time writing fanfic, don't know if I'll do it again. Let me know if you like it, and please tell me if something's off. Thanks!

     She finds him in Braavos.

     She’s sparring a bravo when it happens. She’s by far the better swordsman, and could have ended it in a moment, but he’s better than most of her opponents, so she doesn’t fight her hardest. It’s been a while since she’s fought anyone even halfway decent- or maybe she’s just grown too skilled.

     A man strolls down the street seeing everything- this is a fascinating city, and he has wanted to visit for some time. It was a struggle, convincing his advisors to let him explore the city alone, and they didn’t. Behind him in a woman armed with a spear, the only protection he consented to. They wanted him to bring a full guard, knights and the like, but he refused. The only way to see a place as it truly is, he has found, is to merge with the people, to not stand out, and his height makes that difficult enough already.

      He stops to watch a duel on the side of the street between a young man and a woman. She is holding back, he notes, and could disarm the other in a heartbeat if she so chose. Sure enough, a moment later she appears to grow bored and twists her sword - a slender thing, fragile-looking, but he supposes it is light and maneuverable as well - and the man’s sword, larger and bulkier, falls to the ground. She grins triumphantly, performing a funny little backwards hop, but then she glanced to the side and meets his eyes.

    _No,_ she thinks. _Not now, not now, I can’t do this. It isn’t him, it can’t be._  But how can it not be? He towers above the crowd, auburn hair plastered to his forehead by the heat of a city that is not his own. His eyes are a deep blue that she knows all too well, but she may have still denied his identity, written him off as a Tully offshoot, if it weren’t for the crown of hammered bronze resting on the auburn curls.

     His long, drawn face (like hers, she thinks) is twisted in confusion. She realizes that she is staring and quickly looks down to clean her blade on her shirt, though it doesn’t need it. She’d heard of his survival, of course, but she’d told herself that she didn’t care, that he’d been another girl’s brother, that that girl was dead. But now, standing before him, she is very much Arya Stark. And there is no place in Braavos for Arya Stark.

     She works up her courage - _fear cuts deeper than swords_ \- before meeting his eyes again. She almost weeps when he speaks to her.

     “That was very good swordsmanship, my lady,” says Rickon. Rickon, believed dead so long, now the King in the North, as Robb was before him. Rickon, who was but a baby when she left Winterfell with Father and Sansa. Rickon, who does not remember her.

     She thinks of denying the title - _I’m not a lady,_ a petulant voice seems to echo - but that would only make her job harder. Instead, she says, in the Common Tongue of Westeros, “Thank you, Your Grace. If I may ask, where is the rest of the delegation from Winterfell?”

     His surprise shows on his face - he did not expect her to recognize him. A bit silly of him, wearing a crown and not expecting to be addressed as a king. Still, he answers graciously. “They are still on our ship. We’ve only just landed in your fine city. I left at once to see it, but the others stayed behind.”

     “Oh?” She knows that this next part will be tricky. “Might I be taken to meet them?”

     As expected, he immediately goes on his guard. “Why?” he demands bluntly, all courtesy gone, now viewing her as a potential threat.

     “Because I believe that some of them may know me.” “I doubt that my people would know a Braavosi street fighter.”

     “Oh? Tell me, King Rickon, do I have the look of a Braavosi?”

     She does not, he has to admit. Her hair may be long and dark, but her skin, though heavily tanned, does not have the naturally dark tones of Braavos natives. And her eyes are silvery gray, not black or brown as seen on most of the people of this city.

     “Perhaps not,” he allows.

     She leaps at the chance. “Then return to your ship and ask if any of your delegation could identify a lost daughter of Eddard Stark.”

     He actually takes a step back, his eyes wide, looking for only a moment like the wild boy that Arya had known. Quickly, though, he turns to suspicion. “My sister is dead.”

     “No body was found, as far as I have heard. And if one was, then it is false, for I am surely alive.”

     “If you are truly Arya, then why have you not come home?” And there, again, is the lost boy. She considers for the first time how he must have felt during the War, and before it. His father and sisters had left, then Robb and his mother, leaving only Bran, and from what she’d heard he’d been separated from Bran as well. To a young child, that must have felt much like abandonment.

     She will explain her full reasons later, much later, at home, perhaps in the Godswood - she would like to see the bleeding face again, she thinks. For now, she must conjure a shorter explanation. “I could not be sure that you truly lived,” she tells him. “There have been others posing as me, I have heard. The new King in the North could have been another such imposter.”

     It’s as good a story as any, he decides, and he turns to his guard. “Osha, stay here. I’m going to find Jon.”

     The girl who might be Arya lets out a strangled sort of sob. “Jon?” she asks, “Jon Snow?”

     Rickon frowns. “Yes,” he says, “Jon Snow. He will know if you are Arya, if he agrees to come. As you say, there have been many false Aryas, and Jon is growing weary of false hope.”

     She nods and lifts her sword. Osha raises her spear a bit, but the girl’s action is not hostile. She hands the blade to Rickon, pummel first. “Show that to Jon,” she says confidently. “He will come.”

     He nods and sets off back toward the dock. He considers for the first time what life would be like if they did find his sister. The first time a young woman entered Winterfell calling herself Arya, all four Starks (including Jon, of course) had flown to the hall and been sorely disappointed.The girl had been blonde, honestly, had she expected to fool anyone? Each time after that, there had been less and less hope, until they had given her up for dead. Rickon knew how it had killed Jon to admit it. If this was Arya, everything would change. Sansa had once told him that Jon had not always been quite so sullen, not before he left for the Wall. Part of his seriousness had doubtless come from all he’d seen, but, Sansa claimed, part of it was caused by Arya’s absence, and assumed death.

     This girl has Jon’s eyes, Rickon realizes. She does look very Stark.

     Reaching the ship, Rickon hesitates before casually putting his hands behind his back, taking the girl’s sword with him. He walks up the ramp and goes to join Jon, who stands at the rail, looking not at the city but at the sea.

     “Jon.” Rickon nudges him gently. “Theres a girl calling herself Arya.” As Rickon had known he would, Jon sighs wearily without looking at his brother. “I’m done with false Aryas, Rickon. She’s dead, I’ve accepted that.”

     “Jon, she-”

     “Rickon, I said I-” Jon breaks off as Rickon shoves a sword in his face. “She said to show this to you. She said you’d come.”

     Jon takes the blade almost reverently, running his hand over every scratch and examining the smith’s mark at the base. “Arya,” he breathes, and when he looks up, there is hope in his eyes for the first time in years. “Take me to her.”

 

     Arya shifts uncomfortably under the guard’s gaze. Osha doesn’t move, only stares at her curiously. Neither speak for some time, but then the woman shifts. “If you aren’t truly the lost lady, you’d best run, girl,” Osha says seriously. “Else Lord Jon’s like to run you through with your own blade. He’s tired of people pretending.”

     “I’m not much of a lady,” Arya says. “But I am Arya Stark.”

     Before Osha can reply, Rickon returns with another man at his side. He’s older, Arya thinks, before mentally scolding herself. _Of course he’s older, it’s been years. You’ve changed more than he has._

     “Jon,” she whispers, momentarily afraid that he won’t know her, that it’s been too long, but then she sees him blink back tears and croak out her name, because that’s all he can manage, and then she isn’t sure who moves first, but she’s in his arms and she can’t breathe but it doesn’t matter and anyway, she’s squeezing just as tightly. She doesn’t know how long they stand like that, but it isn’t enough, it will never be enough. They’ve lost too much time.

     When they finally break apart there are tears on her cheeks. Jon turns to Rickon, but he doesn’t need to speak, because now Rickon is pulling her close, the sister he barely remembers, if at all, but that isn’t what matters. He has another sister, another family member, and to the boy who thought he’d lost everyone by age six, family is everything.

     The ship - she laughs when she learns that it’s called Nymeria, for her - leaves Braavos a week later, after a shortened visit, to carry one last Stark back to Winterfell.


End file.
